


Tell Me Your Ending

by RubyBakeneko



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence (referenced), Dirty Talk, Dreams, Hannibal-Typical Conflation of Sex and Murder, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Season/Series 02, Sexual Tension, Will gets off on being withholding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBakeneko/pseuds/RubyBakeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will uses his therapy hour to talk about recent changes in his fantasies. Hannibal tries to avoid spontaneously combusting in response.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Your Ending

**Author's Note:**

> This is set sometime between s02e08 ('Su-zakana') and s02e10 ('Naka-Choko').

Will’s gaze is composed and curious. He hasn’t spoken for several long minutes, motionless but for a twitch of his right hand and a flicker of an inscrutable smile. 

Hannibal simply looks back, outwardly impassive. “You have hardly said a word since you arrived,” he says finally, breaking the stalemate. “This is unusual for you.”

“Well it’s my hour,” Will mocks lightly. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

“Most people abhor silence the way that nature abhors a vacuum. However, a loss for words can at times be a strong indicator of unconscious resistance.”

“I’m not _lost_ for words—I’m simply choosing not to speak the ones I have in my possession,” Will frowns and tilts his head. “I’ve been weighing the advantages and disadvantages of continuing to allow you to analyze my fantasies.”

“I see.”

“Withholding provokes all _sorts_ of interesting assumptions, doesn’t it? What effect does it have on you?”

“What effect do you intend it to have?”

Will deflects that deflection with a frown and a tilt of his head, saying nothing further.

“You experience a struggle between the raw impulse to expose the truth and the opposing instinct to bury it,” Hannibal surmises.

“Often. At least in this space.”

“Discussing what you imagine and what that inner life means to you is a key part of the therapeutic process,” Hannibal sanctimoniously rolls out his stock explanation with an affected air of politeness.

“Is this therapy?” Will gestures outwards, as though finding the entire room offensively ridiculous.

“That was your pretext for returning here, may I remind you, though I think we can agree that we have long passed the point of traditional treatment.”

Will huffs out a sardonic snort at this outrageous understatement.

“But,” Hannibal says pointedly, “That doesn’t mean I can’t help you. Talk to me about the thoughts that part of you wishes for me to analyze.”

“You remember when you asked me if I thought about how I would kill you?” Will sounds hesitant, but there’s something vaguely contrived about his manner. As interested as Hannibal constantly is in whatever might be said next, he considers that this may not be spontaneous rumination so much as acting out a strategy.

“I remember this vividly. Doing so makes you feel powerful,” he offers.

“True enough. But there’s something else—the details that matter have started to shift. I find myself preoccupied with… I suppose you could call it the _sensuality_ of hurting you.”

“That is hardly surprising. Violence and sex are inextricably bound by their shared connection to our base animal selves and to our awareness of our own mortality.”

Will laughs humorlessly, though there’s a slight flush creeping across his cheeks. “I’m plenty familiar with the precarious condition of my own mortality. It’s your mortality that excites me.”

“And how does it excite you?”

“At first, I began to… conjure up the kinds of sounds I thought you would make when I wounded you, or I imagined the metallic taste of your blood as the spray hit my face. Now? Well, it’s as though the appeal of your death is no longer the reason why I still see these things in my mind.”

There’s a tiny, barely perceptible hitch to Hannibal’s next inhalation, but this is a delicate game and his minute reaction is observed and catalogued. “Fascinating,” he stalls, tone blandly neutral.

“These days, I sometimes let a different ending play out,” Will smiles again, equal parts malice and amusement. There’s no sign that he is in any way ashamed of his disclosure. What should have been a revealing, uncomfortable step into vulnerability has simply afforded him more power. Hannibal can either change the subject (a clear sign of being rattled, and a boring deviation from this intriguing new step in the steady eroticizing of their sessions), or he can up the ante. He chooses the latter.

“I want you to close your eyes again for me, Will. Walk me through the last thing you imagined you would do to me. Tell me your ending.”

“And why should I do that?” Will is defiant and unblinking, his ignorance clearly feigned. He is merely looking to draw this out.

“If you reconstruct your fantasy, we can move beneath its surface to figure out what it means to you.”

“What it means to me,” Will echoes, but his eyes flutter closed just the same.

His chest rises in a quiet sigh. “I see you. You’re on the ground beneath me. I’m straddling you, my knees on either side of your thighs. I’m choking you, but you’re not scared. You could fight me, but you don’t—not really. My fingers are wrapped round your throat, slowly starting to squeeze the life out of you, and I can feel that it’s turning you on.”

Will pauses.

“Does the thought of me trying to kill you make you hard?” he asks.

“This is happening in _your_ head, Will,” Hannibal counters, knowing full well that he has had this fantasy himself. While he is aware that he is sitting with someone who is capable of fluidly intuiting the mindsets of others, there is a delicious eeriness to experiencing this attunement directly.

The outline of Will’s stiffening cock is visible even beneath the loose material of his pants. “You’re aroused by the intimacy of my hands starving you of air,” he continues, a whisper of unsteadiness to his words. “By the idea that you’re directly experiencing the… open expression of the ‘urges’ you’re forever telling me I have.”

“I have never denied that I wish you to fulfill your potential.”

“My potential—so clinical,” Will admonishes, darkly playful. “It suggests a detachment we both know you do _not_ feel.” His legs spread a fraction further and he sinks deeper into his visualization, luxuriously uncoiling. 

“And do you end my life in this scenario?” Hannibal eventually says.

“Not this time. I let go of your neck, listen to you gasp. You have every chance to even the score and try to kill me, but I know you won’t because there’s something you want more. I think that you’d rather just touch me.”

“And do you allow me?”

“Yes,” Will’s fingers curl around his erection through his pants. He squeezes, and his head tips back slightly to reveal the movement of his throat as he swallows. Hannibal is wavering on a knife’s edge of self-control, blood pounding in his ears. 

“Do you want me to touch you now?” he murmurs. He isn’t explicitly asking if he _can_ , but the cautious phrasing does nothing to hide his yearning. Will looks straight at him suddenly, gaze hot and razor-sharp in its focus.

“No,” he says firmly and deliberately. “But you can watch me, Dr. Lecter.”

With a shaky exhale, he presses the heel of his palm down onto his erection and hums softly at his own touch. Leisurely and unabashed, he unbuckles his belt and unfastens his fly. He’s not wearing any underwear, cock springing up to rest thick and hard against his shirt. He’s a world away from the belligerently introverted, hesitant Will who scowled and protested so defensively on the first day they met. In his place, there is this resplendent, shameless creature. It is utterly thrilling.

Will strokes himself gently, teasingly, and his eyes slide shut again. “I see myself standing, fucking your mouth. You’re on your knees, all those expensive clothes crushed to hell, and you moan when I twist my hands in your hair.”

It is ecstasy and torture to watch every flick of his wrist and careful swipe of his thumb across the leaking head of his cock. Hannibal wonders how often Will touches himself like this when he’s alone, and wonders how many times ideas like these have been the driving force behind his need for release.

“And what does my mouth feel like?” the silkily whispered question makes Will’s lower body jerk in response as he tightens his grip on himself. 

“Perfect, wet heat,” he stifles a whine. “It makes me desperate. Your hands are digging into my hips, leaving bruises to match the ones that will blossom around your throat. It hurts, but that’s… it’s good. It feels good.” 

“I would leave you ruined and shaking, Will,” Hannibal promises, transfixed by the slick noise of flesh on flesh and the shudder of Will’s breathing. He is aching, painfully constricted by the tailored confines of his suit. “I could undo you in ways that even your beautiful imagination cannot envision.” 

Will bites deep into the plush edge of his bottom lip at the words, eyes fluttering open. The rhythmic motion of his hand on his cock causes the fabric of his shirt to move down his right shoulder, and there’s a light sheen of sweat in the hollow above his collarbone. Every fiber of Hannibal’s being hungers to lick it off, to sink his teeth into the salty skin of that pale neck.

Will pants and thrusts up into his fist. “I want you,” he groans, low and unrestrained, and despite the space between them Hannibal can smell the pure need flooding through him, luminous and violent in its intensity. It's evident that Will is no longer purely inhabiting the fantasy and he’s losing control of his narrative, spilling out truncated and incoherent gasps that sound like the start of a name he still won’t speak.

“I want to fill your mouth… feel you swallow around me,” he chokes out. “God—you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hannibal says simply, naked longing in his voice, and Will arches up and comes. Hannibal greedily drinks in every gorgeous detail—the twists and clenches of muscle in those straining forearms, the soft little moans that catch in Will’s chest as he shoots onto his shirt and leaks over his knuckles. He never breaks eye contact, eyelids flickering through his pleasure. Hannibal imagines sucking the sticky wetness off those trembling fingers, bending Will over the desk and thrusting into the tight heat of his body. 

But more than all of that, he wants to see what Will might do when he emerges from his hazy afterglow and is forced to re-enter their brutal reality—and so Hannibal does nothing. He clings to the vestiges of his restraint, and waits to counter the next move in this latest evolution of their game.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m new here (having devoured the whole series in a mere couple of months), and I'm sure there's already plenty of fiction that’s broadly similar to this story. However, I wanted to start out cautiously, with something that’s both (roughly) canon compliant and self-contained. I'm feeling rather rusty as a writer and I get anxious about sharing my work, but I'm excited to get involved in this fandom and knew I had to take the plunge before I found more excuses to avoid it!
> 
> (Also, I've now made a [tumblr](https://rubybakeneko.tumblr.com/) account so that I can follow many of the lovely people I've met on here. Feel free to say hello any time! And [here's the link to this story on tumblr, should you feel inclined to share it](https://rubybakeneko.tumblr.com/post/159430043800/tell-me-your-ending-rubybakeneko-hannibal-tv%22)).


End file.
